The Undead Age: The Complete Series: The Undead Age, #4

By A.M. Geever

Survival. Adventure. Zombies.

 

A cure for the zombie virus exists—but only for the few.

 

When a plot to steal it is revealed, one woman's life is changed forever.

 

Can she survive the mission she begins or will she fall victim to the Undead Age?

 

If you like Jonathan Maberry (Rot & Ruin), Mira Grant (Feed, Parasite), and Mark Tufo (Zombie Fallout), you'll love this award-winning post-apocalyptic zombie survival adventure!

 

"...a post-apocalyptic universe like no other." —Christopher Artinian, author of The End of Everything & Safe Haven series

"Without any doubt in my mind this series is the most original take on the sub-genre that is zombie fiction." --Goodreads Reviewer

 

Book One: Love in an Undead Age

Surviving the zombie apocalypse was hard but finding true love might be fatal.

 

Urban farmer Miranda Tucci is lucky to be alive in what's left of California's Silicon Valley, despite a love life that's dead on arrival. Then an old flame turns up and she wonders...does her DOA love life have a pulse?

 

A ruthless governing council controls the cure for the zombie virus. If Miranda joins a plot to steal it, will the vaccine be used for political advantage, or can she survive long enough to usher in a new age of civilization?

 

It's only the fate of humanity suddenly resting on her shoulders. If she can bring her love life back from the dead how tough can saving the world be?

 

Book Two: Damage in an Undead Age

It's what you don't see coming that kills you.

 

Safely hidden from San Jose's City Council, Miranda Tucci has begun to believe that life can be good again. Reunited with Mario, and accompanied by her best friend Father Doug Michel, she has undertaken a hazardous journey to the Pacific Northwest. There, the trio of friends hope to recreate the vaccine for the zombie virus.

 

But danger still lurks in what used to be civilization, and hearts can still be broken. If Miranda lowers her guard enough to nurture a small, soft dream, can she risk losing it without losing herself?

 

And with the ravenous undead always in pursuit, can she stay alive long enough to see it come true?

 

Book Three: Reckoning in an Undead Age

Their mission was to save the world. Will they be able to save themselves?

 

In Portland, a crisis looms—and Miranda stumbles upon a secret. It might be the key to avert catastrophe, but only if she gains the trust of an unreliable ally.

 

Mario's journey to San Jose is complicated by an unexpected discovery that brings what he's lost into stark relief, and reminds him of what he still has to lose.

 

Faced with a reckoning, Miranda must make things right, while Mario risks everything to save the people he loves.

 

Can they finish their mission and find their way back to one another, or will they become another casualty of the Undead Age?

 

Get the complete box set today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: A.M. Geever
• Release date: Nov 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9798987319307

Book preview

The Undead Age

THE UNDEAD AGE

THE COMPLETE SERIES

A.M. GEEVER

ZBZ-1 PRESS

Copyright © 2022 by A.M. Geever

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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Good and Ready © 2008, The Old Guard © 2009, and 20/20 Vision © 2020 lyrics courtesy of Anti-Flag.

61C Days Turned to Nights ©2002 lyrics courtesy of Justin Sane.

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Cover design by Molly Phipps, We Got You Covered Book Design

CONTENTS

Love in an Undead Age

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Acknowledgments

Damage in an Undead Age

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Acknowledgments

Reckoning in an Undead Age

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

LOVE IN AN UNDEAD AGE

In Memory of Devin Patrick Geever, who loved a good zombie story.

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And for Drew. I love you more.

Life is a horror show and baby, it will never stop.

ANTI-FLAG

PROLOGUE

Monday, September 14, 2026 - Santa Clara, California

---

Father Walter Brennan surveyed his dreary office through narrowed eyes. No amount of sprucing up could hide the fact that the Department of Mathematics and Computer Science at Santa Clara University was in a basement. At least my new office has a window, he thought, even if it was one of those long, narrow, almost near the ceiling kinds of a window. Sunlight still streamed through it, unlike his first office at the university in Galway, Ireland, not far from where he had grown up. That windowless hovel had felt like a dungeon.

Walter checked his watch: seven forty-five a.m. Enough time for a cup of tea, he thought, his mind already jumping ahead to his lecture. He reached for his keys but froze mid-motion—shouting, then a strangled scream from the hallway. What on Earth, he thought, hurrying to the door.

Walter would never forget the sight that awaited him. Allison Landry (Advanced Calculus) and Sebastian Nichols (Automata Theory and Formal Languages) sprawled on the floor at the bottom of the stairs that led down to the basement from the building’s south entrance. A slight woman in her early sixties, Allison had knocked the younger and stronger Sebastian to the ground. She was ripping Sebastian’s throat out with her teeth. Bright-red blood spurted in high, thin arcs before spattering on the worn linoleum. Sebastian’s strangled gurgles, punctuated by Allison’s animal-like grunts, sent cold shivers up Walter’s spine. Sebastian flailed without effect against his attacker.

For a moment, shock rooted Walter where he stood.

Holy Mother of God!

Walter dashed toward them and grabbed one of Allison’s arms. Allison turned and lunged at him, Sebastian’s blood dripping from her chin, then abruptly jerked back. A very tall, slender young man had grabbed Allison’s other arm, a visiting assistant professor but from a different department. Walter had met him but couldn’t remember his name. He was so slender he looked like he would blow over in a breeze, but he held Allison fast. Allison snapped and snarled between them like a rabid dog.

What the hell is wrong with her? the Visiting Assistant Professor asked.

Walter couldn’t answer. He didn’t know how to process what he was seeing, nor interpret it.

Get something to tie her up! Visiting Assistant Professor shouted.

No one heard him above the din of people streaming into the narrow corridor that ran the length of building. Allison thrashed like a wild animal. Despite her wasted appearance, Walter could barely keep hold of her arm. Her strength was simply unbelievable. They had to get her restrained before she hurt anyone else. Walter looked around for something that might work when he spied an extension cord hanging on the corner of an AV cart just a few feet away.

I’m going to grab that cord from the cart, Walter said. I’ll only be able to keep one hand on her arm. Hold tight!

Visiting Assistant Professor nodded. His fine sandy-colored hair fell into his eyes before he tossed his head to clear his line of vision. Walter reached for the cord. He almost lost his grip on Allison’s arm, but Visiting Assistant Professor proved loads stronger than he looked. Together, they tied Allison to a chair.

Walter turned to see Jan Sieszchula, the department chair, trying to staunch the wound on Sebastian’s neck with a gym towel. Sebastian had become very still. Walter could see he was not breathing.

I think he’s gone. Why don’t you let me take over?

The ambulance will be here soon, Walter. They can help him!

I’ll just say a prayer then.

Walter knelt beside Sebastian’s body. He felt wetness against his knee. Dear God, he had knelt down into Sebastian’s blood. He didn’t have any oil and could not remember if Sebastian was a practicing anything despite having known him for over five years. He decided it didn’t matter. He traced a small cross on Sebastian’s forehead with his thumb.

Through this holy anointing, may the Lord in his love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit. May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up.

Hearing Walter say the Last Rites seemed to get through to Jan better than trying to reason with him. He let go of the towel on Sebastian’s neck.

What the hell is this, Walter?

Walter shook his head. I don’t know.

He was about to ask if anyone had called 9-1-1 when he saw almost every student in the hallway filming the unfolding horror show on their cell phones. Walter covered more ground in three steps than he ever thought possible and snatched the phone out of the nearest boy’s hand.

Hey! the kid protested.

What the hell is wrong with you? Walter snapped at the students, his brogue stronger in his anger. He pointed to the north entrance at the other end of the building. Get out of here. Now!

The wail of approaching sirens signaled help was on the way. Walter turned back to his homicidal colleague, who growled and thrashed against the cord that held her fast. The blood on her face had started to dry, flaking away where the smears were thin. Blood still coated her teeth, as if she had no saliva to dilute it.

Allison, he said. Why did you do this?

No answer, just growls and moans.

I met her last week. She complained she was coming down with a cold but she looked fine at the New Faculty Reception yesterday. Now she looks like death warmed over, Visiting Assistant Professor said.

Walter had seen Allison the day before as well. The transformation—sunken eyes with dark circles, shriveled and chapped lips, the reek of decay—was astonishing.

She looks like she’s lost twenty pounds overnight, Walter said. And her eyes. It’s like she’s not even in there.

The doors behind them burst open. Campus Security pounded down the stairs, followed by paramedics who knelt by Sebastian’s prone form.

A dark-haired female paramedic checked his pulse, then shook her head. He’s gone.

The Campus Security officers gaped at Allison and the bloody body at their feet. One of them shook himself, seeming to remember that he should be taking charge. Who can tell me what happened here?

I suppose I can, Walter said when no one else answered. I heard shouting in the hallway—

Hey, he’s moving!

The officer turned back.

Walter stepped forward.

Sebastian twitched.

The female paramedic put her hand to Sebastian’s bloody, ruined neck. I don’t have a pulse.

The guy’s moving, the other paramedic said, not looking up from the IV he had started prepping. Get a dressing on his neck.

"There’s no pulse," the first paramedic insisted.

Her partner reached over to check for himself. Sebastian’s eyes opened. Then he turned his head toward the man’s extended hand and bit him.

"Aaacckk! Get him off me!"

The female paramedic scrambled to assist her partner. The Campus Security officer rushed into the fray. Sebastian’s arms and legs were moving. He let go of the screaming paramedic’s hand and the man scurried backward. Then Sebastian grabbed the female paramedic’s arm and bit her, too.

Things seemed to happen in slow motion and fast-forward all at once after that. Walter watched as more Campus Security streamed through the doors behind Sebastian and the paramedics, bottlenecking on the stairs. Sebastian had already attacked the first officer, but not before the man tased him in the chest. Sebastian never slowed down. He smashed the poor man’s head against the wall with a sickening crack before beginning to gnaw on him.

Bodies pressed against Walter as people tried to get away, their screams and shouts echoing off the walls. He was pushed into the AV cart and lost his footing as it rolled from the force of the impact. Walter stumbled, trying to right himself. People were panicked. He would be trampled if he fell. He extended his arm and when his hand hit the floor, he pushed hard. Regaining his footing, he got clear of the AV cart, which bounced like a pinball against the fleeing onlookers. He heard more screams behind him and looked back. Someone had gotten too close to Allison, who was still tied to the chair. The pandemonium intensified as Santa Clara Police entered the building from the other end of the corridor, blocking the only escape route. And still Sebastian lurched down the hall.

Walter felt two strong hands grab his shoulders. He cried out in panic and struggled against them but was pulled backwards into darkness. A heavy door slammed shut with a metallic thud. Walter heard a sliding lock shoved into place.

Help me push this against the door, Visiting Assistant Professor said, his voice barely a whisper.

Struggling to tamp down his panic, Walter realized he was in the building’s tiny maintenance room. Feeble light trickled in from a tiny glass block window near the ceiling. He could barely make out a drum of cleaning solvent against the wall. Walter pulled while Visiting Assistant Professor pushed. As his eyes adjusted to the poor light Walter saw three more people crammed in with them against the back wall.

The chaos on the other side of the door intensified. Gunfire and screams reverberated down the hallway. More sirens wailed, some distant, some near. Walter and the rest of the occupants of the tiny room huddled together as far away from the door as possible.

Do you think we’ll be safe in here? a young woman asked.

Visiting Assistant Professor said, It’s better than the hallway.

There’s no way out but the door, she said, not quite disagreeing. We’re trapped.

I think we’re safer here, Walter said. Under his breath, he muttered, Please, God, let help be here soon.

As soon as the words left his mouth Walter realized that the police and Campus Security were already here and he felt safer in this closet.

A man’s voice, high with fright. The guy from Campus Security tasered him and he didn’t even slow down.

No one had anything to say after that. They fell silent, listening to the screams and shouts and gunfire. Sirens seemed to be coming from every direction. Dark shadows flickered across the cracks of light around the door. The astringent smell of cleaning fluid and furniture polish permeated the stuffy air.

Walter looked up at Visiting Assistant Professor. You saved my life and I don’t even know your name.

A ghost of a smile lifted the corners of Visiting Assistant Professor’s mouth. Walter could not tell the color of his eyes, but the tiny expression transformed the young man’s delicate features into movie star handsomeness.

He stuck out his hand. Doug Michel. Astrophysics, Florida State. I’m here to work with… Shit, I can’t even remember.

I’m Walter Brennan, Walter said, before adding inanely, I teach Algebra and Statistics.

What the hell do you get up to here in Math and CS, Walter? Doug whispered. I’m not complaining, but why is there a lock on the inside of this door?

Walter looked at the lock, then back to Doug. I’m sure I don’t want to know.

1

October 2036

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You have got to be fucking kidding me, Miranda said, bringing the Range Rover to a halt.

She squinted her eyes against the glare as she watched the stumbling figure near the Secured Expressway’s Tenth Street exit. The clothes of the one-time businessman hung in filthy tatters, fluttering in the breeze. The uneven gait and awkward balance marked it as a shambler, now the most common type of zombie, and its guttural moan carried across the distance.

Miranda twisted around in her seat to look up and down the deserted freeway for more zombies, then inched the Rover closer. A cacophony of snarls and barking erupted behind her, courtesy of Delilah, her caramel-colored pit bull. The fur along Delilah’s spine bristled as she lunged between the front seats. Fifty feet from the shambler, Miranda stopped the Rover. She pulled the handbrake and popped the clutch into neutral but did not turn the engine off.

Delilah, stay, she said, then opened the door and stepped out.

The stench of decayed flesh, rank and sweet, wafted toward her. Flies buzzed around the zombie like a dark full-body halo. She ran her hand over her auburn hair to make sure the up-twist was tight. Satisfied that her hair would not give the zombie anything to latch on to, she pulled the .50 caliber Desert Eagle from her shoulder holster and once more looked up and down the Expressway. A lot of people ended up as zombies because they failed to appreciate that while speed was not a shambler’s strong suit, persistence most certainly was.

She walked closer, then spread her feet wide so the kick from the gun did not knock her over. She took her time sighting up, not wanting to waste ammo taking a long shot. Just as she squeezed the trigger, the shambler tripped over its feet and tumbled to the pavement.

"For fuck’s sake."

A scowl twisted her lips as Miranda walked closer. The zombie rolled onto its back, writhing on the pavement. The fetid reek of rotting meat burned her nostrils. Gray-filmed eyes turned toward her. The shambler’s mouth opened in a lipless grimace, its blackened tongue flicking back and forth. Stiff, bony fingers stretched toward her and still the zombie moaned. Even after all this time, the sound still raised the hairs on the back of Miranda’s neck.

She raised the Desert Eagle again and squeezed the trigger, but the shambler twitched its head at the last moment, like it knew she was trying to kill it. The bullet nicked its jaw but did not hit the zombie’s brain.

You fucking piece of shit, that’s two bullets!

She reholstered her gun and unsheathed her machete as she closed the remaining distance between herself and the zombie. Stomping on the zombie’s arm, Miranda swung the machete down like a guillotine. The crunch of bones reverberated up her arm as the head came free of the neck. The head rolled away, the zombie still hissing. When it stopped, Miranda raised her booted foot.

Fucking. Her foot descended, smashing into the zombie’s temple.

Piece of. Sticky slop splashed on her leg as she pulled her foot free.

Shit, she snarled, her foot pounding through the shambler’s skull.

She glared at the gummy pile of bone and brain that stained the pavement black, chest heaving from exertion.

Unfuckingbelievable, she muttered.

She walked back to the Rover, stopping to wipe the machete and her boot on a rag tucked into a pocket in the driver’s side door. She retrieved a pair of binoculars from the glove compartment and looked up and down the freeway again. Her mind raced as she searched the walls and fences that lined the road. How had it gotten in?

Settle down, Delilah. It’s okay now, she said. She patted the dog’s head and rubbed her batwing ears through the back window. Delilah ceased barking but persisted in growling, only partially appeased that the zombie no longer moved toward them.

Maybe the power around a maintenance entrance gate shorted out, Miranda speculated, a frown twisting her mouth downward. Electrified fences were the weakest link in the Expressway’s security system, but the second set of gates behind them were manned and overengineered. It had never been a problem.

Until now maybe… But this shambler wasn’t coordinated enough to be a good climber, she thought, lowering the binoculars.

Most zombies couldn’t climb. They could stumble over low obstacles, but climbing stairs, fences, or ladders required coordination beyond a typical zombie’s abilities. Even if this one were coordinated enough to climb the Expressway walls, there would need to be an electrical failure at the fence and a failure at the secondary gate including the guard.

How the hell does that happen and no one notices?

A zombie on the Expressway in the heart of Zone 1, the safest area in San Jose. Hell, in all of Silicon Valley. The evidence lay crumpled a few feet away, but she could not believe it. There had never been a zombie on the Expressway. Never.

What if it’s an outbreak?

The idea sent an unpleasant shiver skittering down her spine. Miranda climbed into the Rover and turned around to drive back to the Bird Street exit. She looked in the rearview mirror at the slumped form, growing smaller by the second. It’s not an outbreak, she decided, remembering the condition of its clothes. This was an old zombie, not someone who had missed a dose.

Delilah’s snout nuzzled Miranda’s ear. She nudged the dog away before Delilah could give her a wet willy.

This is definitely going to liven up some gate operator’s morning, Liley; that’s for sure.

2

A nd then he said he ‘didn’t have time for crazy chicks.’

Miranda and her best girlfriend Karen were having lunch at the Ethiopian Place. That wasn’t the restaurant’s name, just what everyone called it. If pressed, most Valley residents could not have supplied Star of Ethiopia’s actual name if it would save them from a pack of snarling zombies, but everyone knew The Ethiopian Place at San Pedro Square.

They were seated outdoors at a café table on a gorgeous October day, marred only by the abject misery of Miranda’s lunch companion. Karen sat sniffling, salty tear tracks crusting her copper skin as she poked aimlessly at the Doro Tibs and Azifa with her injera. When they’d made their lunch date, Miranda had not considered that injera—the soft, porous bread that served as an edible fork—might also be used as a tissue as Karen went through the motions of eating. She had not actually dabbed her eyes or blown her nose on her injera—yet—but the sight of it passing so close to Karen’s sniffly nose only to be poked back into the food they were ostensibly sharing was starting to put Miranda off her lunch.

Why the hell did he lead me on for two months and make me think this was going somewhere if he wasn’t really interested?

Karen’s righteous indignation was followed by a fresh burst of tears. Miranda passed her a napkin. If she could get Karen to use the napkin, maybe she’d quit almost using her injera.

Miranda could think of several reasons why this latest creep was not interested in anything more than fucking around, but the short answer was Karen dated jerks. For as long as Miranda had known her, there was something about handsome, cocky, macho jocks who thought the world revolved around them that attracted Karen like a magnet.

I’m just so tired of dating, Karen whimpered. She wiped her puffy eyes on her sleeve. Her corkscrew curls stuck forlornly to her head. Her mouth compressed into a scowl. With her coppery skin, she looked like a too-old buckeye robbed of its satiny shine.

How is it that you always date such nice guys, Miri?

Miranda choked on her drink. The absurdity of Karen’s statement caused her to suck water down her windpipe.

You’re kidding me, right? she sputtered between coughing fits. The most action I’ve gotten lately was when you couldn’t find your seat belt in What’s-His-Face’s car and were fumbling under my ass for it.

You know what I mean, Karen replied. Maybe it’s been a while, but Sam was—oh shit, Miri, I’m sorry.

Miranda waved her friend’s unease away. Talking about Sam didn’t sting like it used to. It wasn’t Karen who had gotten him killed.

And so was— Karen stopped again, wincing before continuing gamely. Well, and Connor, of course.

You’re going back to college, Karen, eleven years easy. That’s a bit of a stretch, Miranda replied, digging into the food. Karen’s embarrassment had distracted her so much that she had finally quit waving her contaminated injera everywhere.

Well, I don’t know what to do, Karen sighed. I’m thirty, single, and date assholes. I feel doomed.

Miranda was about to say something encouraging when a woman walked past their table, distracting her.

What is it? Karen asked as she watched Miranda’s attention drift.

It’s that woman. Do I know her?

Karen turned in her seat to look. The one in blue? she asked. She doesn’t look familiar to me.

Miranda’s brow furrowed. Something’s not right about her, but I can’t put my finger on it.

The woman had stopped to look in a shop window. On further inspection, Miranda decided that she didn’t know her and she looked normal enough: a tall woman in a nice dress and expensive sunglasses. Her dog stood beside her.

I don’t know what it is you’re seeing, Miri. She looks like a regular person to me.

I dunno, maybe my imagination is getting the better of me, Miranda said, setting the matter aside. That zombie on the Expressway got my day off to a strange start.

Miranda turned her attention back to her lunch when it hit her: the woman was wearing heels. Very high heels. She had not seen anyone in a pair in years.

It’s her shoes! she hissed. She’s wearing heels!

Karen regarded Miranda with a puzzled expression. Why is that weird? Lots of women have started wearing them again. I just got a pair myself. I forgot how much they pinch your toes.

Lots of women are wearing them? Miranda squeaked, her voice getting higher with each word. Since when?

Not everyone plays in the dirt for a living and considers sneakers snazzy footwear, Miri.

How do you outrun a zombie in high heels?

Oh, Miri, honestly! You make it sound like there are zombies around every corner, Karen said with a dismissive wave of her hand. Things are so much better now. Why not live a little? Karen mustered a faint grin, no doubt at the prospect of having footwear fashion trends to follow.

Well, of course things are better, Miranda replied. But with all the people coming to San Jose for the vaccine and then finding out they can’t afford it, we have a pretty bad zombie problem just outside the walls. There’s still the occasional dasher. Zombie on the Expressway this morning.

Karen rolled her eyes in an aggrieved manner that always got under Miranda’s skin.

Dashers? Really? When’s the last time you saw someone fat enough to turn into a dasher?

That’s not the point.

I can’t remember the last time I saw a dasher. And they end up slowing down and becoming shamblers once the fat is gone. Karen paused. Have they ever figured out how that works?

If they figured out how something dead can metabolize anything, let alone how fat, fast zombies turn into gaunt, slow ones, I think we’d have heard about it. I know what you’re doing, Karen. You’re trying to change the subject.

I’m not saying that people don’t have to be cautious, Karen allowed. "But there are places where there haven’t been zombies in what…seven, eight years? Like right here. What’s wrong with wanting to try and be a little normal?"

Miranda felt her brain begin to swell. One more ridiculous word out of Karen’s mouth and it would explode.

"Anything that doesn’t take what I affectionately refer to as reality into account isn’t just stupid, it’s dangerous. Next, you’re going to tell me you’re moving to one of the gated La-La Lands."

Sweetie, if I had the money I’d have moved there yesterday. And so would you, if you were honest with yourself.

No, I wouldn’t, Miranda snapped.

Yes you would, Miranda Tucci, and you know it! Why are we even arguing about this? You’re supposed to be cheering me up, not biting my head off.

Miranda wanted to tell Karen how wrong she was but swallowed her retort. Maybe we should get some dessert? Dessert was always a good olive branch. Karen had a sweet tooth.

Are you kidding? I have to get back to my dating weight, and I have to get back to work. I’ll take care of the check.

Karen was out of her seat and through the restaurant door before Miranda could say anything more. Miranda couldn’t believe Karen did not see the sheer insanity of wearing shoes that were not made for walking, let alone running or fighting. Was she being more irrational than usual because of the breakup, or were people really getting back to normal and she had somehow missed it?

The waiter came up to the table. Would you like your check, Miss, or will you be getting a coffee?

Uh, no, thanks, Miranda said. My friend went in to pay. She’s in a hurry to get back to work.

The waiter paled. I— She shouldn’t need to do that, he stammered. I’ll pay your bill myself, I, let me get these dishes out of your way.

The waiter continued to apologize. His hands shook so much that the dishes he picked up rattled. Miranda opened her mouth to assure him it was no big deal when she saw the tattoo on his neck: an orange triangle overlapped by a thin black circle with three black pointy-ended semi-circles intersecting it—the universal symbol for a biohazard. Her hand touched the green triangle tattoo on her own neck, just under her right jaw, before reaching for his arm.

She only succeeded in startling the poor man. He jerked his arm away so abruptly that a glass tumbled off his tray. Heads turned at the hollow crash of the breaking glass. As he stooped to pick up the pieces, the waiter began to weep.

Miranda crouched beside the distraught man. She picked up a piece of the shattered glass and set it on his tray.

It’s okay. Please don’t worry. We would never complain.

Pathetic, gratuitous apologies or wretched, abject gratitude—she wasn’t sure which was worse.

3

Miranda doubled over, breathing heavily as she recovered from a sprint up the six flights of stairs to the top story of Farm #1. After her weird morning and then lunch with Karen, she needed to dispel the funky energy she seemed to be attracting. Running stairs was as good a way as any and it kept her in shape in case she was attacked by all those zombies Karen thought she was being over the top about.

She opened the door, breathing deep. The tomatoes were her favorite part of the farm. There had been a Sun Gold that had topped fifteen feet during the last growing cycle. Nothing was going quite that crazy just now, but the plants were doing well.

The same could not be said for the irrigation system on this floor, however, and the tech was not in yet, so she would look at it herself. The place buzzed with activity as people tried to catch up on the morning’s work. Miranda liked when it was busy like this. It reminded her of when they were first trying to get the farms off the ground.

Some had scoffed when she first suggested the idea of a vertical farm. Who was she, a snot-nosed college kid who’d never even graduated, to think she should be in charge of growing enough food for everyone? Holders of that opinion were not impressed by Miranda’s internship at the Chez Panisse Foundation’s Edible Schoolyard Program. Others were daunted at the thought of building anything so ambitious. Miranda had come across vertical farms her freshman year and fallen in love with the concept immediately. The idea was so elegant and made so much sense that Miranda was sure it would never become a reality on the scale that it should. Not in America, anyway.

The idea was to have multi-story buildings in cities that were essentially huge greenhouses to grow food. The controlled environment would mitigate crop failure, making organic farming easier. Farmland could be allowed to return to its natural state, restoring ecological systems. Burning fossil fuels to transport food would be reduced because it would not have to be shipped all over the world. And if there was ever a disruption in supply lines because of a disaster, cities wouldn’t run out of food within days.

Miranda spent hours poring over schematics for glass and steel buildings with thermodynamic heating and cooling systems, solar-powered irrigation systems, and wind-powered electrical systems. She thought the designs were inspired, never thinking she’d get the chance to manage one, never mind build one. Farm #1 was in the converted North Parking Garage on the San Jose State University campus. When the first harvest from the pilot was compared to those that were grown traditionally, the project picked up steam. The vertical out-produced the regular farm by thirty percent, better than they’d projected. Even without the use of heavy machinery, building from scratch proved more efficient than conversions. Once they started using purpose-built buildings, the percentage jumped to forty-five.

There were still traditional farms. Replacing them had never been the idea; having a more secure food source was. There were five verticals between the San Jose State and Santa Clara University campuses so far, as well as the farm at UC Berkeley. Just thinking about the success of the project made Miranda so happy she thought she would burst.

She squatted next to the pump for the sixth floor and took off the casing. No blockages on the intake and outtake tubes she discovered after a quick visual inspection. The pump had power and the water pressure was good, so it was not a leak. It had to be mechanical. Miranda pried off the motor cover to take a look. Worst case scenario we swap the whole thing out and have maintenance do the repairs.

She had the motor almost half taken apart when she heard footsteps and voices coming her way. One voice belonged to Alan Reynolds, the City Council Administrative Liaison.

Privately, Miranda referred to Alan as ‘The Troll.’ His predecessors had understood that the job was a bone the Jesuits of Santa Clara University—who ran the farms—threw to placate the City. The City, in turn, used the liaison to spy on the Jesuits. There had not been much to report of late since the rocky relationship between the Council and the Jesuits was calm just now, but that could change in a heartbeat. Everyone knew how it worked except Alan. He had ideas about how to run the Farm and thought his position gave him a say about Ops. Miranda had decided that Alan was not that smart. Self-important and well-connected? Absolutely. But smart? Not in this lifetime.

"It is hard to find a good gardener! Alan’s droning voice floated down the aisle. Every time I find an adequate one, it takes a month to get them to do things the way I want. I get maybe six months, and then one day some random person shows up saying my gardener turned, but he’ll be happy to take over."

Alan sounded aggrieved, as if his gardener woes would be the death of him. Miranda had abandoned all pretense of trying to work with Alan months ago and instead concentrated her efforts on finding some pretext to get rid of him. If he’d just get caught out in something even the City can’t defend, like kiddie porn, she thought.

A deep pang of longing blossomed in her chest. Lately she’d begun fantasizing about arranging an accident to take care of the Alan problem but when she made a wisecrack to that effect, Father Walter had not been amused. She grinned, remembering the look of horror on his face, as well as his sharp admonishment that she would do no such thing.

As if I’d ever stoop as low as murder for that waste of space.

The footsteps drew closer. Even though she knew it was coming, it still put every nerve on edge.

Knock knock!

She didn’t know where Alan had picked up the habit of slinking up behind people and treating the beginning of a knock-knock joke as a legitimate greeting. Business school, most likely.

What do you want? she asked, not bothering to hide her annoyance.

I want to introduce you to Mary, our new irrigation tech.

A new irrigation tech? Alan had Miranda’s attention now.

What are you talking about? she said as she stood up. You don’t hire for Ops and we don’t need an irrigation tech, especially now.

Ah, yes, about that… I’m afraid I had to let Timmy go.

Alan looked down at his shoes, then up at the ceiling. He was so tall that his raised head left her looking at the bottom of his bobbing Adam’s apple. His habit of not looking her in the eye was almost as annoying as the knock knock crap.

"You had to let Timmy go? I’m gonna use short sentences so you understand me. You don’t hire for the Farm. I do."

You know that Timmy was bitten—

And he got to the hospital in time so they could dose him.

Alan lowered his beady blue eyes to hers, his lips pursed like he’d been sucking a lemon.

We’ve never had a doser working at the Farm and I don’t think it’s a good idea to set a precedent. I don’t have to remind you that his Level 1 skill rating is the only reason he was eligible for post-bite sponsorship in the first place, and that comes out of the general fund, not the Ops budget. Seeing Miranda’s stunned expression, Alan’s voice became bold. You should have consulted me before you signed off on treatment.

For a moment, Miranda was too stunned to speak. You want to get rid of him because it costs us money? she demanded. If we don’t sponsor him, he’ll be a slave or turn into a zombie! What the fuck is wrong with you?

Heads popped out from the tomato plants, seeking the source of the raised voices. The would-be irrigation tech backed away from Alan.

You can’t talk that way to me! Alan snapped. The last thing we need is to have someone working here who’s going to turn into a zombie if he misses a dose! I won’t have it!

There is zero chance of him turning if he gets his dose every day. I’ve talked to Timmy, and despite the fact that he’ll now be treated like shit by most everyone and has to go live in that goddamn camp, his motivation to avoid becoming a zombie is very high. You don’t have authority over Ops staffing, which includes vaccine sponsorship, so I don’t give a shit what you’ll have.

I don’t appreciate your attempts to undermine my authority, Miranda, Alan countered, looming over her. It’s unfortunate that he was infected but—

No, Alan, you listen to me. Miranda moved into his space so that he had to take a step back. Her voice dripped menace, and her right index finger jabbed into his chest for emphasis. I don’t give a fuck what you want, what you like, or how you want things done. I don’t care if they put a biohazard tattoo in the middle of his fucking forehead! Nobody is going to turn on my watch to save a few a bucks. Now take your flunky and fuck off before I throw you out the goddamn window.

Alan vibrated with fury and embarrassment, his face as purple as the eggplants that grew on the other side of the building. You haven’t heard the last of this, Miranda! You can’t treat me like this and get away with it! he snarled.

He turned on his heel and scuttled toward the door, very much like an oversized beetle, taking note of the sizable audience their shouting match had drawn. Miranda shouted after him.

Yeah, Alan, I have heard the last of it! The City doesn’t control the Farms and I don’t care what Councilman you’re blowing, you fucking troll!

Goddamn him, she hissed as the door slammed shut. She kicked a wrench that lay on the floor, sending it skittering across the deck grating that let water drip through to the level below. Blood pounded in Miranda’s ears, her body brimming with adrenaline. She looked up and for the first time noticed the staff standing there.

What? she blurted. At the back of the group came a clap, followed by another. Within seconds she was receiving an enthusiastic standing ovation. Miranda felt a grin tug at one corner of her mouth. That was pretty bad, wasn’t it?

The young woman nearest to her grinned. That was epic, boss! That was like, folk hero stuff.

I don’t know about that, Miranda laughed. She looked at her staff, their faces alight with laughter and adoration. Okay, you guys. I blew my stack and there’s still work to do. Nothing to see here anymore.

The clapping, though not the laughter and excited chatter, subsided as people drifted back to their work.

Hey, Miranda said to the young woman. Will you call maintenance for me, have them come swap out this pump?

Sure thing, boss.

Miranda smiled her thanks, then headed for the door. She had to track down Timmy, the irrigation tech caught up in Alan’s power grab, to let him know that she had not gone back on her word.

Fucking Alan, she thought, another fucking day in paradise.

4

Y our car is ready, sir. It’s waiting outside the main entrance.

San Jose City Councilman Mario Santorello looked up from the contract he had been reviewing. The Council secretary hovered in the doorway.

That’s great, thank you, he said, offering a tight smile. Almost eight months into his term, Mario could not remember the woman’s name. After years of not bothering with the names of underlings, he had trouble remembering even the names of those it would be helpful to know.

Mario straightened the papers before setting the contract aside. He pushed his chair in with a precision the task did not require, then checked his watch. Might as well go straight home after and spend an hour with the kids, he thought as he buttoned his suit jacket.

Outside, the sun’s rays were blinding as they reflected off the squat glass and silver dome beside the San Jose City Hall tower. Mario squinted against the glare, the pupils of his light-brown eyes contracting to pinpoints. He slipped on his sunglasses and headed for the open rear door of the black SUV parked at the curb.

Mario!

He stopped and turned. His younger brother Dominic waved his arm above his head from halfway down the block.

Glad I caught you, he said when he reached Mario.

I’m on my way to the Julian Gate. I can’t stick around, Mario said.

I’ll tag along. You can give me a ride home, his brother answered, then ducked into the SUV ahead of Mario. Dominic grinned as he settled himself on the cool leather of the back seat. Julian Gate means a riot and you’re still the new kid on the block. The first year sucks, but someone else will be getting the glamour jobs before you know it.

Mario sighed, then looked out the window. Falling into the pecking order of siblings, Dominic did not try to engage in conversation during the three-minute drive.

The Julian Street Gate towered ominously at the intersection ahead. The fortified concrete wall that demarcated San Jose’s border could have given the Berlin Wall a run for its money with its drab grayness and oppressive aspect. The walls and gates that surrounded San Jose always reminded Mario of the ugliest examples of Soviet architecture, but they got the job done. He supposed that was all the Soviets had cared about, too.

Mario opened the SUV door. The roar from the other side of the wall always surprised him. He knew it was a riot, and by definition riots were loud, but he could not shake the years of conditioning for quiet and stealth.

He nodded to the Watch Commander who waited at the bottom of the tower stairs. What have we got? he asked as they started up the metal stairs two abreast, his brother following after.

Approximately five hundred subjects gathered over the last hour. Twelve minutes ago, they demanded entrance to the city. They were given two minutes to disperse, then tear gas canisters were fired. They fell back for a short time but regrouped.

Mario walked to the railing of the observation deck at the top of the stairs. The ashy smell of tear gas still hung in the air despite the stiff breeze against Mario’s back. A wave of raggedly dressed people rushed toward the wall, then stopped short as if on cue. Arms flipped up like the levers of a line of catapults and rocks filled the air, smacking feebly against the fortified concrete. Flames burst to life at the edge of Mario’s peripheral vision as a Molotov cocktail ignited.

Beside him, Dominic said, I love the smell of napalm in the morning.

Mario shot his brother an annoyed sideways glance.

Lighten up, Dominic laughed. And don’t pull that fox face with me. I pulled more of these the first month of my first term than you’ll ever get now. Order the live ammunition.

Mario turned to the Watch Commander. Why haven’t you used the water cannon?

We’re still on water restriction until the rains start, sir. We can let it run its course if you’d like.

Tick tock, tick tock, Dominic muttered.

Mario shook his head. We don’t need five hundred more zombies along our walls. Give another order to disperse, then use live ammunition.

The Watch Commander nodded. He turned away and started barking orders.

Now the fun begins, Dominic said as the dispersal order blared over the loudspeaker.

Mario waited. The mob offered rude gestures and cat-called insults. When the crack of the rifles began, the taunts turned to screams and panic.

And they’re off! Dominic said, his voice like a child’s with a new toy. Look at them run.

Mario felt his face tighten into a hard mask. It started at his eyes, then his nose, followed by his mouth and square chin. Mario looked at his brother again and headed for the stairs. He was almost at the landing before Dominic called after him. Mario waited while Dominic caught up.

Don’t be such a crab ass, I’m just having a little fun. Migrants can’t turn up on our doorstep expecting to be handed the vaccine as some sort of entitlement, Mario. They have to pay for it or earn it like everyone else. It’s not like they matter.

Dominic had been on the City Council for almost six years and enjoyed the idea of being senior to his older brother entirely too much for a thirty-four-year-old man. Mario’s motives for wanting to be on the Council could not have been more different than his brother’s, and he’d fought like hell to prove his loyalty before he was finally awarded a seat. The sibling rivalry, and, if he was honest with himself, his brother’s lack of recognition of how hard he had to work to get where he was now, got on his nerves.

Of course they don’t matter. I just have better things to do than watch fish being shot in a barrel. Above them, the gunfire ceased. You still want that lift home?

Yeah, though I’m not in a rush, Dominic answered, opening the SUV’s door.

Alan still trying to run the Farm? Mario asked, not trying to hide his amusement. He directed the driver to the Axis building, then turned his attention back to Dominic.

If I’ve told him once I’ve told him a million times: all he’s supposed to do at the Farm is keep an eye on things and report back, but does he listen? Dominic asked, his voice filled with long-suffering. He and Miranda got into it again, but this one was bad. She threatened to throw him out the window.

You still have your looks, Mario said. It’s not like you’ll be a widower for long.

You suck.

Mario laughed. That may be, but he needs to cool it. We cannot touch Miranda without pissing off the Jesuits, and you know what her temper is like. If she gets angry enough—

Dominic groaned. I spent lunch trying to explain political realities to him. He refuses to believe the Jesuits have the support they do with the unwashed masses. Or that they’re stronger now than when we tried to get rid of them before. ‘We have the vaccine’ is his answer to everything, as if having the vaccine is all that matters when we need their import network from the missions. He has this ridiculous notion that we can just step in and take them over, too. And he cannot comprehend that they started the Farms to feed people, not to make a buck.

That’s what happens when you let a bunch of academics run things.

Talking to Alan about any of it is like talking to a stone.

You should have married a Catholic, Dom, Mario teased. If you hadn’t strayed from the One True Church, your husband would understand that priests live for that social justice crap.

If I hadn’t strayed, I wouldn’t be married at all, you dick, Dominic retorted, but he smiled. The SUV slowed as they approached his building.

You picked him.

It’s self-inflicted, I know. Dominic opened his door. Give Emily and the kids my love.

You bet. I’ll see you later.

The SUV door slammed shut.

Home next, Councilman? the driver asked, making eye contact via the rearview mirror.

Mario nodded, then looked out the window without seeing anything. Fucking Miranda, he thought. A ghost of a smile played around the corners of his mouth as he pictured her: a five-foot-seven fire-breathing dragon squaring off against his idiot brother-in-law. She had probably been sticking up for someone who could not stick up for themselves, like she always did.

A wave of loneliness caught Mario in its undertow, tightening his throat and hollowing his chest. He tried to shove the feelings aside. He could not afford to dwell on Miranda, but that left him thinking about Dominic. His brother regarded shooting unarmed people as entertainment, even people as dispensable as migrants. It shouldn’t have surprised Mario, yet somehow it did. What was it that Miranda had read to him once?

A riot is the language of the unheard.

What’s that, sir? the driver asked.

Mario looked up, surprised to realize he had spoken out loud.

It’s nothing.

5

Connor’s breath came in scraping gasps as he sprinted across Monterey Avenue.

The bank! Seffie shouted.

Connor saw it on the corner: a squat Bank of America building. Low enough that they could get to the roof, but high enough that they could escape the horde. He glanced over at Mike.

Mike wasn’t there.

Connor skidded to a halt and turned back. Mike was down on one knee, still by the motel down the road, trying to shake off two zombies. If they got him down, he was done for.

Without thinking, Connor ran back. From his peripheral vision he could see zombies—tens of them, soon maybe hundreds—spilling out from the parking lots and abandoned buildings of this semi-industrial strip of old San Jose. They were closing in from all sides, stalking their prey with an inexorable herky-jerky momentum.

He swung the crowbar against the skull of the zombie on Mike’s back. Both Mike and the zombie sprawled forward, knocked down to the pavement from the force of the blow. Connor took aim at the other zombie—the one holding fast to Mike’s arm as it gnawed on his elbow. When the crowbar connected, Mike yanked his arm away, shrugging off the zombie on his back as he rose. His jacket, still tangled in the fists of the dead zombies, began to tear.

Behind you!

Connor didn’t look, just swung as he turned. He hit the first zombie in the chest. As it staggered back, he shoved the sharp end of the bar into another’s face.

Mike fell in beside Connor, the early evening sun glinting off the stainless steel chain mail exposed by the rips in his jacket. Seffie was gone, turned the corner already. They ran flat out, dodging and swatting away the grasping, twisted hands, not trying to kill because that would slow them down.

Over here! Seffie shouted, waving her arms above her head, her voice almost panicked. Connor saw her eyes get wider. He did not need to look back. The growing volume of moans at his back told him everything.

Seffie looked tiny next to the three square brick columns supporting the low roof over a row of defunct ATMs. Mike leaned down when they reached her, weaving his hands together to create a step. Almost as soon as Seffie’s foot hit his hands, she was airborne, tossed up on the roof like a doll. Connor performed the same service for Mike with a groan and none of Mike’s grace, providing just enough lift so that Mike could catch the roof’s lip. Connor stepped under his kicking feet, guiding them to his shoulders, his spine compressing under Mike’s weight.

The sight that had widened Seffie’s eyes now widened Connor’s own. There were hundreds of zombies shuffling into the intersection, curling around the corner from Monterey Avenue like water around a stone.

Come on, man, let’s go.

Connor looked up. Mike’s perfect white teeth glinted against his blue-black skin. His muscled arms extended down. Connor crouched, then jumped, stretching his arms high. Mike snagged him just past the elbows, his huge hands dwarfing Connor’s biceps. Connor scrabbled his feet against the column, seeking whatever tiny purchase the mortar between the bricks offered. He felt a sliding weight against his boot heel, a hand not quite able to catch hold and hang on, as Mike pulled him up to safety.

Connor collapsed onto the hot blacktop and gravel roof. Heat radiated through his battered canvas backpack, clothing and chain mail, broiling his already roasting skin. He felt itchy, exhausted, and grateful to be alive.

And I thought we were screwed in Salinas, he gasped.

Tell me about it, Mike answered.

Seffie’s voice was filled with irritation. You two need to come over here, away from the edge.

Connor lifted his head. Seffie had retreated to the main building roof. He followed Mike over to where she sat.

Don’t tell me you’d miss me, Connor said to her.

Hardly, she snorted. She swiped at the sweat on her flat, Pekinese-like face with the blue bandana that was usually wrapped around her head. We’re what, half a mile short?

Connor stood up and squinted through the shimmering waves of heat rippling up from road and rooftops, barely visible as dusk approached. It couldn’t be more than half a mile to the huge concrete wall that demarcated the boundary of modern San Jose. The road itself was clear of vehicles beyond the intersection where they were stranded. Every car, truck, and SUV had been moved off to the side and stacked two or three high, almost all the way to the gate. The road lay open like an invitation, but a smattering of zombies wandered on both sides of the vehicle barrier. For every one you could see, there was sure to be at least five more you could not.

I can see the gate and a whole lot of zombies. Connor sighed.

How do they keep the city secure with this many so close? said Mike.

Connor shrugged as he sat down again. Seffie’s face twisted into its habitual scowl.

It’ll be dark soon, and we still have one flare. We could shoot it and see if they’ll come get us, Connor suggested.

Would you come out to get people you don’t know? Seffie asked. Almost immediately, both she and Mike added, Don’t answer that.

Connor didn’t need the reminder. He knew he was the Boy Scout of the group. Seffie and Mike were far too pragmatic to risk their necks for people they did not know without a damn good reason. Whoever was manning that wall was probably the same.

I have a few grenades left, Mike said. Let’s lay low for an hour or two, let the horde settle. If it clears up at all, we make a break for it. Shoot the flare so they know we’re coming, and it’ll give us some light. Use the grenades if it gets crowded. If we’re lucky, we’ll make it. It’s only half a mile.

It was risky, but Mike was right. They did not have a radio or a vehicle or even bicycles. They’d run out of water over a day ago. It was now or never. Connor stuffed his battered canvas backpack under his head before shading his eyes with the crook of his arm.

You weigh a fucking ton, dude, he said to Mike.

I played linebacker for NAVY. I’m supposed to weigh a ton.

Twenty years ago, maybe, said Seffie.

Now don’t be like that, little girl, Mike said, gently teasing.

Seffie flashed a rare smile. I’ll be any way I want, you old geezer.

Zombies still milled around the bank several hours later, but far fewer than before. Connor wasn’t worried about getting through the close ones. It was what they might encounter farther down the road that concerned him. Making a break for it in unfamiliar territory was always dangerous. Trying it in the dark… He didn’t let himself think about the odds. The glow of electric lights shimmering against the night sky, safely ensconced behind San Jose’s walls, felt like a dare. Were they brave enough—desperate enough—to take it?

Connor pinched the bridge of his nose to ease the throbbing headache behind his eyes. The pain flared whenever he turned his head, a sure sign of dehydration. He eased himself over the lip of the roof, hung for a moment, then let go. At six feet plus the length of his arms, the ten-foot drop was easy. Seffie shimmied over feet first. Connor caught her legs and let her slide down against him. Mike got down on his own, just as Connor had.

The closest zombies began to stir as they moved away. Connor adjusted his grip on the crowbar and glanced back the way they had come. Most of the zombies that had surrounded them earlier were back around the corner, milling in place. At least, that’s what it looked like. It was hard to tell in the dark.

They trotted through the intersection and passed the first set of shops before the moans began. A low, thin sound that began near the bank. Then it spread, hopped, amplified.

Let’s pick it up, Mike said.

As Seffie started to jog, Connor saw the first shapes moving in the dark beyond the stacked cars, far more than he had feared. More adrenaline flooded his system, tightening his chest and making his heart race.

Shoot the flare, he said to Mike.

Not yet, Mike answered.

They ran faster as they skirted a three-car-length gap in the barrier where zombies spilled into the road. From side streets and alleys, from the vast vacant tracts of land behind tumbledown chain-link fences, came stumbling, moaning figures.

Shoot the fucking flare, Mike, Seffie hissed.

Mike lifted his arm. Connor heard a soft pop. A moment later, soft pink light illuminated the sky and Connor’s heart sank.

There were more gaps in the stacked car barrier. Zombies were spilling into the roadway. There were even two climbers, something Connor had rarely seen, tumbling off the barrier before staggering to their feet.

They had covered half the distance, but Connor didn’t see how they were going to make it.

When I say duck, you stop and do it! Mike said, not bothering to be quiet any longer. Connor saw him pull the pin from a grenade.

Duck!

Connor stopped and ducked low. He could see the dirty gray laces of a battered pair of Converse tennis shoes that shuffled closer. Black ballet flats. Work boots. A broken high heel.

The grenade detonated.

Connor and the others leaped to their feet, toward the thinning of the almost-horde ahead of them. Mike lobbed the next grenade without telling them to stop. Connor shielded his face when it detonated, saw its lack of effect.

Climb! Seffie shouted, grabbing his hand.

They climbed the vehicle barrier, hands slick with sweat, fear sharp in the air. Connor crouched on the roof of the minivan on top of a car. Mike scrambled up, then leaped to the next vehicle. When Connor pushed off to follow, he felt the minivan roof beneath him shift. He looked down to see zombies pressing against the barrier from both sides.

Seffie and Mike stumbled ahead of him, swaying like drunkards as they struggled to keep their balance on the shifting car roofs. They both stopped short, and when he reached them, Connor saw that the barrier ended. The flare still burned bright, bathing the wrought iron enclosure around the wall’s outer gate in